


ZevWarden Week 2017

by My_Beating_Hart



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Cooking, Fluff, Formalwear, M/M, Mass Effect AU, Minor Original Character(s), Prompt Fill, Scars, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 19:19:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11743479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: Now it's over, I thought I'd collect the ZevWarden week prompts into one place. It was a fun week, even though I was consistently a day behind every time.





	1. Day 1: Massage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have a bit about Zev thinking about Theron’s scars. It got kinda sad at the end, because something something Zevran and depression.

Zevran’s fingers brushed down the nape of Theron’s neck. They were warm and slightly damp from the sweat gathered there, but he ignored it. His hands had been covered in far worse than sweat before.

Theron lay pliant beneath him, chin rested on his folded arms. Aside from the slow rise and fall of his back as he breathed, he was still as a statue. Zevran let his hands drift further, pressing into the tension he found in Theron’s shoulders.

“Ow,” His lover grunted as his skilled fingers eased a particularly stubborn knot of muscle into submission. It was the first time either of them had spoken in a while.

“That means it is working,” Zevran pointed out.

A companionable silence fell over them again, and Zevran continued his labour of love. He ran his hands over the burn scars that stretched across Theron’s shoulder blades. Once upon a time, back when those scars were fresh, he had always hesitated before touching them. First, because he didn’t want to hinder the healing process of such grim injuries, and then when they had both learned pressure on the healed scars brought pain.

Theron couldn’t feel the light touches on his shoulders anymore, only pressure or temperature. Still, Zevran let his hands linger a few more moments as he remembered the cruelty of Fort Drakon. Remembered the brutality of his own training. They both had a fair collection of scars and bad memories now. The scars were fading and the bad memories were banished to unpleasant nightmares and shadowed corners of the mind. He put those memories behind him once more and continued.

The next scars he encountered were far smaller. The rough circular mark of an arrow’s exit wound perilously close to the large intestine on the right-hand side of Theron’s spine. On the left was a neat little cut right over the kidney. If the blade that had caused it had gone much deeper than skin level, Theron would have bled out. Zevran was familiar with it; he’d been the cause of it, after all. Long ago, when he’d toyed with the idea of finishing the job he’d been assigned to do. He hadn’t expected either of them to survive that night, but fate had intervened in the form of a mabari the size and weight of a grown dwarf, and his blade had been stayed. He brushed a thumb over it as he chased the tension from Theron’s spine, glad of the man who lived and breathed before him.

The last scars he studied were the ones barely visible on Theron’s back. Three jagged lines that stood out from Theron’s skin much like the burn scars. A reminder of that final battle on the roof of Fort Drakon, a gift from the Archdemon. Zevran sighed through his nose. He hadn’t been there to witness it or avenge it, but according to eyewitnesses Theron had been batted across the roof like a cat toy. It had only been his cry of pain that reassured everyone he had not broken his neck on impact with the stone roof and died.

Zevran swallowed, his hands pausing on Theron’s warm, undamaged skin when he realised they were trembling. He knew the shape and feeling of Theron’s scars as well as his own by now. They’d spent many nights silently mapping the assorted scars on each other’s skins, explaining to each other the events or near-death experiences that had left their marks. They were both still alive, and that was all that mattered.

“Zev?”

Zevran looked up to see Theron looking awkwardly at him from over one shoulder.

“Yes,  _mi amor_?”

“You alright?”

Zevran hesitated. His first, Crow-trained instinct was to make some kind of dismissive joke to ease Theron’s worry and then distract him so the topic never came up again tonight. But he was a Crow no longer.

“Not quite,” he admitted as he stopped straddling Theron.

Immediately the other man turned over and sat up. He held his arms out, and Zevran melted eagerly into the embrace even as some bitter part of himself cursed his own weakness.

“Come back to me, Zev,” he heard Theron murmur as a hand ran through his hair. He sniffed, and buried his head against Theron’s shoulder. He focused on the moment. Theron’s warmth against him, the gentle hand in his hair, the murmured nothings that continued even after he’d stopped shaking.

“Y’know, you should teach me how to give massages.”

“Why?” Zevran asked without moving his head.

“I should repay your kindness somehow.”

Zevran chuckled at the notion.

“Kindness from an assassin? A rare thing indeed.”

“Which is why it needs repaying.”


	2. Day 2: Domestic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theron cooks a meal for the camp, Zevran helps and is pleasantly surprised at Theron’s cooking ability. Set vaguely sometime during the Blight.

Out of the entire group, Zevran reflected, Theron was one of the best adapted to living off the land when the group was on the road between civilisation. Morrigan and Sten were close seconds, but Theron had lived his life outdoors and knew the wilderness well. He spent hours away from camp on hunting expeditions and it was rare he came back empty handed, even if all he could catch were rabbits or birds. For some reason, Zevran was surprised when he learned Theron was a good cook.

“What, did you think I ate my meat raw?” The Dalish elf scoffed when Zevran brought the matter up one evening as they sat in front of a pot half full of bubbling water and ingredients. “Pass the parsley.”

“No, no!” Zevran answered hastily as he handed over the small bowl of fresh green leaves by his foot and then returned to scrubbing dirt from the wild potatoes Theron had found Maker-knew-where. “I did not expect you to be such a good cook for a Fereldan native. You use  _spices_  and actually taste what you’re cooking as you go,” He glanced around camp surreptitiously but could see no sign of Alistair so he continued. “It is a welcome change to Alistair’s stews. I doubt those are lamb like he says; I have never tasted lamb as odd as the kind he cooks.”

Theron smirked as he deftly shredded the parsley leaves and sprinkled them over the rabbit meat that waited in a wooden bowl.

“It’s better than having to eat squirrel stew.”

“Or rat stew,” Zevran nodded in agreement. The two elves shared a glance and weak smiles. “Hard winters in the forest?”

“Yes. Lots of younger mouths in greater need of food. Childhood poverty?”

“Yes. Squabbling in gutters for dirty coins or scraps of bread,” Zevran made a show of tidying his hair. “Ah, look at us, we know each other so well!”

Theron rolled his eyes as he added the rabbit to the pot of half-done stew. Zevran smiled back as innocently as he could. He closed his eyes, rejoicing in the smell of herbs he’d thought he’d left behind in Antiva, even if they were as simple as parsley, rosemary and ground pepper.

“So, dear Warden, did the women of your clan teach you how to cook so well?”

For some reason that left Zevran bemused, that made Theron chuckle. When he saw Zevran’s raised eyebrow of confusion, he shook his head.

“No, not them exclusively. I learned a lot from my hunting mentor. He was a tough old dog, and if we were to be successful students we had to learn how to cook what we killed. Turned out he was almost as good a cook as he was a hunter, and he was a  _very_ good hunter.”

“A shame he isn’t here; I think I’d like to thank him for passing on his cooking knowledge to you.”

“Creators. I wish he was now, I’d love to see him be speechless for once.” Theron frowned to himself and reached for the wooden spoon to taste test his latest creation.


	3. Day 3: Formal Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set post-Awakening in Denerim, Zevran’s taking in the sights and sounds of yet another formal event, and old habits die hard.

Queen Anora certainly knew how to throw a party, Zevran mused as he stood on the fringes of the grand hall with a wall at his back and a glass of something alcoholic in hand. He surveyed the crowds of well-dressed nobility, studied how the men preened and most of the women were engaged in a subtle, unspoken war of oneupmanship for the night. Every dress he saw vied to be the most impressive in the room, resulting in wonderful splashes of colour and glittering decorations. Although it was no masquerade ball, he could still see the glint of ornate masks hiding several Orlesian faces.

Out of habit, he attached faces (or masks) to outfits quickly. His gaze darted around to check where the guards were stationed, what the plainly-dressed servants carrying trays and platters were doing as they weaved through the crowds. He’d already made a note of every open window, every door out of the room. Just in case.

Zevran stopped himself. Old habits were hard to shake. He wasn’t on a job here, he was no longer a Crow. He didn’t need to be scanning the crowd for his mark or assessing which of the guards would try to intercept him first as he planned a swift escape route. He was a guest here, and an honoured one at that, being the Hero of Ferelden’s… Lover? Husband? Partner.

He glanced down at his own formal outfit. It was drab compared to the outfits around him. Dark colours with silver and gold accents on the seams, and the tailor had done a wonderful job of the fitting. Roomy enough not to hinder his stride in case quick movement was needed, but form fitting enough that he felt marvelously sexy even when he stood still.

Yes, he was here as a guest, not an assassin. He could relax. He glanced at his drink, and took a sip. If he was to relax, he needed to be tipsy to go along with the marvelously sexy feeling. When he lowered his glass he was pleased to see Theron weaving his way through the crowds nearby. The other elf looked slightly harried, and as he was stopped by another group of tipsy nobles to talk about Maker-knew what, Zevran felt a twinge of sympathy for the Dalish elf so out of his comfort zone.

Of course, Zevran didn’t go to his lover’s aid. He had no wish to become ensnared in mindless chatter when he was feeling ill at ease. At such big political events as these, every high-ranking nobleman may as well be walking around with a target painted on their back. So, Zevran was doing his part to keep his  _amor_  safe. Across the room on the dancefloor, he locked eyes with Theron’s two bodyguards. They were in disguise tonight and flowing through the steps of an elegant dance, but as they moved together as one Zevran could see both pairs of eyes were on Theron. He nodded, and as the dance wound down they played the part of courting lovers and separated reluctantly. They disappeared into the throng of the crowd, and Zevran lost sight of them. Good. He expected no less from fellow Crows.

He was brought out of his thoughts by a touch on his forearm. He looked up to see Theron, and as a grin spread across his face he made a show of looking the other elf up and down as seductively as possible.

“My, my. Don’t you look ravishing tonight?” He asked, reaching out to adjust the collar of Theron’s dark green shirt. The silk was warm under his touch, and the silver embroidered leaves that encircled the neck glittered in the light. He could see the faint red marks on Theron’s collarbones where he’d been scratching. The shirt looked nice, but in private Theron was vocal about how unpleasantly itchy it was.

“I could say the same about you,” Theron answered softly, leaning in for a brief kiss. Zevran could smell the faintest tang of sweat under the floral soap and whatever Theron had used on his braids. “You should wear formal clothes more often.”

“Trust me, I am  _well_ aware of how sexy I look right now. I could wear these in the bedroom, perhaps?” Zevran guessed, and he was rewarded with a pink flush spreading across Theron’s cheeks. “I jest,  _mi amor_.”

Theron cleared his throat self-consciously as he glanced from side to side, his golden earring flashing. Zevran knew no-one was in earshot barring their well-trained bodyguards.

“A shame.” Theron whispered as he leaned in for another kiss. Zevran leaned back against the wall, tangling his free hand in Theron’s braids and wrapping his other arm around his waist to keep him close this time. The kiss was hot, the perfect distraction from his restless thoughts about nonexistent marks and potential threats that lurked in every corner with poison and daggers.

“Upon further reflection, I think that can be arranged, my dear,” he breathed when they parted for air, noses brushing together. “How are you faring?”

“It’s getting stuffy in here, flirting aside.”

“Tired?”

“Of conversations with human nobility, yes. Physically, not quite. What about you?”

“I am not as drunk as I hoped I would be, but nevermind. I can have a decanter sent up to our room,” Zevran sighed, gently pushing Theron back so he could step away from the wall. He walked past Theron, towards the dance floor, and then turned elegantly on one heel. He bowed at the waist and held a hand out to Theron with the most charming smile he could manage. “Shall we dance, my dear?”

“So long as we can find somewhere private afterwards so I can… Admire the finer details of your outfit.” Theron answered as he took Zevran’s outstretched hand. On a whim, Zevran kissed it before he straightened up.

“I would never say no.” Zevran reassured him as he led the way through the crowds in the direction of the music.


	4. Day 4: AU Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Omega, Zevran Arainai, human scoundrel extraordinaire, sees a young quarian on his Pilgrimage who might be an easy mark.

Omega was seedy. Omega was filthy. Omega was a fountain of corruption. And Zevran Arainai, human colonist-turned-space pirate, called the dingy little space rock home. He didn’t like the term ‘space pirate.’ It was too informal, no one would take him seriously. He preferred the term ‘privateer,’ almost as much as he did ‘scoundrel’ or ‘loveable rogue’. One had to make a living somehow on Omega, and he’d chosen a mostly non-violent route.

As he moved through the crowds buzzing under the glow of Afterlife’s harsh lights, his eyes were constantly searching for marks that could earn him a few hundred easy credits. Distracted turians, lazy humans engrossed in their omni-tools, squabbling asari. All good targets for the program on his omni-tool. He hummed as he worked, giving the air of just another civilian passing through and idly looking at his omni-tool. He bumped an asari’s shoulder, apologised profusely and then walked away with her omni-tool’s signal. One press of the button and the hacking program did its thing.

A moving bright light caught the corner of his eye, and he was surprised to see it was a drone. It didn’t look like it was about to open fire on the crowd of people he was currently part of, but he was wary all the same. He’d heard and seen the various gangs that fought over Omega use swarms of drones to start turf wars, and he had no desire to become another dead bystander. He made his way to the edge of the crowd, liberating a few more hundred credits along the way.

The drone buzzed a little closer, allowing Zevran to get a better look at it. No, it wasn’t a combat drone, once he squinted past the swirling lights he could see the white metallic body helpfully emblazoned with a red cross. A support drone on Omega? It wouldn’t last two seconds.

“Hey, you!” Zevran tried not to flinch when he heard the distinctive flanged voice of a turian behind him. He turned, excuse at the ready, but the turian walked past him and out of the crowd towards the drone. It floated away rapidly, the humming taking on a higher pitch, and Zevran tracked it’s path back to it’s apparent owner who stood tapping their omni-tool at one of the balconies. A quarian, of course. Always quarians.

Then again, quarians were rare on Omega. There’d been that Kenn down in the markets, but he’d vanished a few weeks ago. They stood out a mile, and were pathetically easy targets for robbers, the gangs or worse. They were easy marks, too. Zevran detached himself from the crowd and ambled within hearing range under the guise of lighting a cigarette.

“Who, me?” The quarian asked. They sounded young, nervous. Zevran almost felt sorry for them. But this was Omega, it was sink or swim.

“Yes,  _you_. I’m gonna assume you’re new here,” The turian answered; Zevran realised it was Gavorn and ducked his head before the turian could spot him. A shame they didn’t get on, really. “Drones aren’t allowed on Omega. Power that thing down or I’ll do it myself. With my gun.”

Zevran couldn’t see any kind of facial expression underneath the quarian’s mask, but from the way the quarian reached for the drone it was clear he was alarmed.

“I… Even support drones? I need FLINT active, in case of suit ruptures,” The quarian protested as the drone dimmed and perched on his shoulder. Zevran narrowed his eyes. From the pitch of voice and broad shoulders, he assumed the quarian was male.

“You  _named_ the damn beeper?” Gavorn heaved a sigh. “Quarians. Go figure. At the very least, keep it close to you or you’ll piss off the gangs here that think all drones are programmed to shoot things. And then you’ll get several suit ruptures.”

“Yes, sir.” The quarian nodded. Gavorn left him be, walking past Zevran to his post outside Afterlife. Zevran waited a moment before he stubbed out his cigarette and flicked it off the balcony into empty air. A glance told him the quarian hadn’t moved, so he walked over as casually as he could.

“I apologise, but I couldn’t help overhearing the tail end of your conversation with the lovely captain. Zevran Arainai, human privateer at your service.” He introduced himself with a wink and the faintest stress on  _private_ , dearly hoping he made eye contact with the quarian.

Unfortunately, the dirty joke seemed to be lost on the quarian.

“You’re in the military?”

Zevran hummed noncommittally.

“In a way, yes. May I ask your name?”

“I am Theron Mahariel vas Tonbay.”

Zevran held out his gloved hand, and after a moment’s hesitation the quarian - Theron - shook it. He had a surprisingly firm grip.

“What brings a young quarian to somewhere as crime-ridden as this space rock?” Zevran asked as he leaned back against the balcony. He hooked his arms over the railing so his hands were out of sight. He had Theron’s omni-tool signal, all he needed was time.

“I’m on my Pilgrimage. I was getting tired of life on my home ship, so when the time came I left as soon as I could to see the galaxy.”

“And Omega was your first stop?”

Theron shook his head, the long black cables that attached his helmet to his suit creaking at the vigorous movement.

“No, no. I went to the Citadel first. I’m not here for long, just some eezo for my drone.”

“And this is… FLINT, yes?” Zevran asked with a nod to the drone still perched on his maker’s shoulder like an ungainly metal parrot. It beeped at him, a small musical fanfare that he doubted was one of the default noises. Custom noises, name recognition software… Quite an interesting little drone.

Theron nodded, and he visibly brightened. Zevran was reminded of a puppy.

“Yes, I built him myself. More or less. From scraps, a little bit of eezo and soldering iron…” He trailed off awkwardly and cleared his throat. “Sorry, I keep forgetting that not everyone I meet is as fascinated by technology as I am.”

Zevran shrugged one shoulder. He pressed the button on his omni-tool, but it buzzed at him like a pissed off bee to let him know the program had failed to launch. He bit back a sigh, and reluctantly closed the program to reboot it. Damn thing, he probably needed to upgrade it again.

“If it helps, I’m curious? I’ve never seen a support drone up close before. Let alone a handmade one someone treats like a pet. Why is it called FLINT?”

“It’s a bit of an acronym. FriendLy INTelligence, like how the E-Warfare drones are called ELINT for Electronic INTelligence.”

Zevran bit the inside of his cheek. He’d known many quarians were nerds, but never one as  _nerdy_ as this one standing before him with what amounted to a service drone. He sighed to himself, and remembered exactly why he was talking to this young, naive quarian in the first place.

“How long will you be on Omega for?” He asked.

Theron shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated fashion that told Zevran he’d picked the gesture up recently; the movement obviously wasn’t a familiar one.

“Only a few days. Once I get the eezo, I won’t have any reason to stay.”

“A wise choice.” Zevran nodded sagely. “There are few enough reasons to stay, no?” He tilted his head back, a smirk tugging one side of his mouth up. “Aside from me.”

He waited expectantly for some reaction to his rather brazen flirt. Theron’s eye-lights dimmed for a moment as he blinked. The silence stretched on for a few more seconds, and it became clear Zevran had just wasted his best line when Theron spoke again.

“What about you?” With no way to read the quarian’s facial expression under the obscuring purple haze of his faceplate, Zevran had to assume the tilt of his head was a quizzical one.

“Alas, I live here.” Zevran paused, then huffed out a laugh. It was that or cry after the critical failure of his flirting.  “Ah, you meant what  _about_  me. Well, who would you rather be accosted by here on Omega, hm? A heartless pickpocket or a handsome scoundrel?”

Theron was silent again. Zevran was briefly convinced he’d encountered a quarian-shaped geth.

“Is that a trick question? The handsome scoundrel.” The quarian tilted his head the opposite way and Zevran had the distinct feeling he was being studied like he was an interesting piece of salvage. “Unless he was a pickpocket, too.”

“Then what a lucky day you’re having! I happen to be a handsome scoundrel!”

Theron crossed his arms, the movement far more natural and fluid that his shrug had been.  “But you’ve already accosted me.”

“True, true,” Zevran smirked, bringing his fingers against his omni-tool to boot up the hacking program and faking a laugh to disguise any sound of the process. “I had to save you from those heartless pickpockets, you know.”

“Did you, now?” Theron sounded entirely unconvinced.

Zevran nodded, hoping he hadn’t raised Theron’s suspicions.

“Of course,” he answered, looking at the quarian through his lashes. “There are veritable swarms of them here on Omega.”

In Zevran’s mind, lewd and cunning as it was, even a  _drell_  would have picked up on the suggestive lilt of his voice. And judging from all the drell he’d ever met, which was more than one and slightly less than six, the entire species seemed to have sticks up their asses. More so than turians, at any rate.

Theron stared at him. Just his luck he’d picked an oblivious quarian as his mark.

He was startled out of his study by the quiet buzz of his omni-tool against his fingers. That buzz meant his program had failed. Again. Once, he was willing to blame on a connection error and forgive. More than that meant something was wrong.

“Wait.” Theron’s eyes - at least, what Zevran assumed were his eyes - narrowed as he lifted his chin. “Are you  _flirting_  with me?”

Zevran would have yelled for joy, but on Omega that would have gotten him shot.

“Have been for the past, what,” Zevran minimised the hacking program and chanced a look at his omni-tool before hooking his arm back over the balcony; sure enough, the alert for a failed program run was showing discreetly on his display, “ten minutes or so? But thanks for noticing.”

Theron took a step back, eyes now wide and unblinking as he looked Zevran up and down. Even without a facial expression, it was a comical enough sight.

“But we’re both  _men._ ”

Zevran tilted his head, mimicking what Theron had done to him. He also tilted his hips  _just_ enough to show a strip a skin from the separation of his shirt and flight pants. He was pleased by the inhalation the other man couldn’t quite hide through his suit’s ventilator, a rasp like a volus’.

“Is  _that_  the problem?” he purred, hitting the reset button on his omni-tool to run the program again. “I suppose that would explain why my… Charms failed.”

“I…” The quarian cleared his throat and started to say something, only for FLINT to chime in from his shoulder in a slightly grainy robotic voice.

“ _Detecting elevated heart rate and extremity temperature. Checking suit pressure. Recalculating.”_

“Hush!” Theron hissed, clearly embarrassed even as Zevran laughed. God help him but he was  _enjoying_  this, despite the frustration at not being able to take any money. Naivete was rare enough on Omega to be endearing, but embarrassment was even rarer– and much more satisfying.

“I wonder what…  _Extremities_  it’s referring to?” He murmured, letting his eyes rake across the quarian.

“My face,” Theron answered, far too quickly.

“I believe you,” Zevran answered sarcastically.

The quarian sighed.

“Look, this has been a nice conversation, but I think it’s time for you to go now.”

Zevran pouted.

“Are you certain? The fun was just starting.” He answered. He couldn’t leave yet, he had to try one more time to get even a credit for all of his efforts.

Theron nodded once.

“I’m sure it is, but we’re done here,” He answered, the high-pitched, flustered quality to his voice vanishing. “You haven’t exactly been subtle about trying to hack my omni-tool from the moment you walked over, and I can tell you haven’t bothered to install the proper firewalls to go with that hacking program of yours. By the time I finish speaking, I’ll have taken… Oh, two thousand credits from your account? Just a warning, and more than enough to pay for a shuttle off this, what did you call it again, space rock.”

With a shaking hand, Zevran called up his account, privacy be damned at this point, and saw he was indeed two thousand credits down.

He felt a cold pressure nudge his stomach, and when he dared to look down he saw the quarian had stepped close and pulled a pistol on him. This close up, he could hear the faint hum of the quarian’s various suit systems and smell antiseptic. Dangerous, really. He could headbutt the faceplate to crack the front of it. Sure, he’d end up with shards of it in his forehead but if he introduced human blood into a quarian’s precarious immune system… No. He couldn’t be arrested for murder. Besides, the move had also been brave. Robbing him blind had been brave. The quarian had quads of steel.

“So the whole innocent quarian on his Pilgrimage, was that all an act? Is our relationship based on lies?”

“No, I really am on my Pilgrimage, and I did make FLINT myself. Under normal circumstances, I’d like to keep flirting with you, but you kept trying to rob me. It’d be better for both of us if we parted ways.”

Theron stepped away, taking the gun with him. Zevran brushed down the front of his shirt to hide the fact his hands were shaking even worse now.

“Alright, Theron. I have to say, you’re very clever.”

“I’m a quarian, what did you expect?”

“Not a  _social_ engineer.”

“That’s rude,” Theron muttered.

“If we see each other again before you leave Omega, let’s agree  _not_ to rob each other again.”

Theron’s low chuckle made Zevran’s blood run cold. Was this how he died?

“Okay. Good luck.”

Theron turned from the balcony and walked away towards the crowd. His omni-tool glowed as he pressed a few buttons, and then he vanished from sight in a midnight-blue ripple. Zevran stared in disbelief, searching the crowds for the quarian or his drone, but there was nothing. He’d disappeared into thin air.

“I want one of those.” Zevran breathed.


	5. Day 5: Character Development

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I decided to write smaller vignettes rather than one big piece for this, around the way these two dorks kiss at different stages in their relationship, although I’m not very happy with the first two.

Their first kiss was only a few weeks after the failed assassination. After much patient flirting, Zevran had finally lowered the Warden’s guard. Seduction worked just as well as outright combat, so long as the mark was dead at the end of it.

The kiss was in the privacy of the Warden’s tent, Zevran naturally taking the lead, coaxing the Warden out of his reservations and uncertainty. It wasn’t the best kiss Zevran had ever had, and it didn’t take him long to realise he was the Warden’s first kiss, full of nerves and naivety. On what he planned to be the Warden’s last night, Zevran resolved to teach him how to be a good kisser before he died.

* * *

 

Of course, neither of them died that night. Zevran added another failed attempt to his record, and resolved to stop trying; Theron would always be on his guard now. So, Zevran was surprised when Theron initiated the next kiss. It was unexpected, hard and demanding. Their lips clashed uncomfortably. Theron still wasn’t a good kisser. Zevran found a new way to challenge himself.

 

* * *

 

The next time they kissed was another, gentler prelude to sex. Not seduction with a blade waiting in the shadows close at hand, but simple pleasure. Zevran found himself pouring the apologies he was too proud to voice into those kisses. His mouth roamed Theron’s body, learning and teaching, encouraging the reserved elf beneath him to finally be at ease with himself. As time passed and the Blight wore on, those kisses became as familiar as the blades he wielded and the armour he wore. As quietly hoped for as the gentle smile on Theron’s face or his laugh as their relationship blossomed to ease the rocky beginnings.

 

* * *

 

The Blight was over and the Archdemon lay dead on the roof far above them. Theron had lived, too, but only just. Zevran would have to be blind to miss the stark white bandages that covered his lover’s midsection. He would have to be deaf to not jolt awake every night as Theron thrashed and cried out in the grip of his nightmares. Zevran never wanted to leave the room Theron was confined to for long, but it stopped him from brooding incessantly.

Tears came sometimes when he sat vigil beside Theron’s sleeping form. He’d come so close to losing his lover. Theron could have died multiple times during that fight. He’d swallowed no small amount of Archdemon blood and the herbs hadn’t made him bring up what had already been ingested - what did that do to a man, let alone a Grey Warden? The tears surprised him. His own feelings alarmed him with their depth. After a few days of terrifying contemplation, Zevran realised that he loved Theron, completely and foolishly. Whenever he tried to admit them to Theron, however, his nerve failed him.

Eventually he settled for what he knew best; climbing onto the bed oh so carefully and kissing Theron until their fears and pain and relief overflowed and their cheeks were damp with tears. The kisses were desperate and exhausting for them both, but the tears slowly eased. 

At night once Theron was sleeping fitfully, Zevran found himself pressing another kiss to Theron’s forehead, gingerly as if Theron was made of frail glass and would shatter at the lightest touch. But he hadn’t; his dark brow was warm beneath Zevran’s lips. He’d survived the Blight, survived the Archdemon, would survive the recovery process. Theron Mahariel would survive, and Zevran had vowed to follow him to the gates of the Black City itself, had sworn his blades and his life to the man who had spared it and accepted the ring he now wore proudly in one ear.

They would both survive.

“I love you,  _mi amor_.”


	6. Day 6: Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theron and Zevran are in the foothills near Sundermount, searching for Theron’s clan. Zevran is nervous as all hell about meeting the family. Fluff, some minor angst, and an acid tongue.  
> I’ve had this idea of Theron reuniting with the clan and bringing Zevran along rattling around for a while, so this extract is the beginning of it.

When Zevran awoke, it took him a full minute of staring up at the dimly lit tent canvas to remember where they were. There were in the Free Marches. Roughly a day away from Sundermount, to be more specific.

They’d travelled here for one reason; chasing rumours to their source. Rumours of a Dalish clan that had booked passage from Ferelden like so many others to flee the Blight. Clan Sabrae. Theron’s kith and kin.

They’d travelled swiftly from Kirkwall’s ports to the wilderness, two lightly armoured and provisioned elves. Zevran couldn’t imagine how long the journey must have taken for an entire Dalish clan burdened with aravels, halla, children, all of their worldly possessions.

Theron was an accomplished scout, and as soon as they’d landed in the Free Marches Zevran had noticed an unspoken change come over him. Not the seasickness from the voyage, but something that made him rise irritatingly early in the morning and come to bed reluctantly at night.

Zevran wasn’t an idiot. He could recognise the change for what it was. Impatience, longing, bitter homesickness even in a land that was foreign to both of them. For Theron’s sake, Zevran hadn’t complained about the increased hours on the road or his aching legs. And now here they were.

His thoughts turned to the same ones that had consumed him these last few weeks. What would Theron’s family think of him? He was an assassin, raised from childhood to kill. A city elf, too, although he thought of himself as Antivan first and foremost. Theron had repeatedly assured him that the Sabrae clan was open-minded, but Zevran found himself too restless to take any comfort in the notion for long.

The tent flap opened, letting cold mountain air and morning sunlight stream into the tent as Theron entered. He was, unsurprisingly, fully armoured.

“Morning,  _lath_.”

“Morning,” Zevran mumbled as he relaxed his grip on the dagger he kept under his pillow. “Must we break camp yet?” He stretched under the furs, making a show of it when Theron remained crouched in the entrance watching. “Five more minutes?”

“That depends on whether you want to have breakfast on the road.”

“Surely you would not be so cruel?”

Theron rolled his eyes.

“I’m not the one who insists on taking so long preening his hair every single morning.”

Zevran sat up abruptly, feigning offence. It distracted him from the nerves that were beginning to gnaw at his insides, however briefly.

“Theron,  _mi amor_ , if today is the day I meet your family then surely you’d want me to look my best? Good first impressions, and all?”

Theron sighed through his nose. Zevran stared at him hopefully. Maker, or Creators, whoever was listening, let him say yes. Anything to delay reaching Sundermount and feeling several dozen strangers staring at him, assessing his worth. The nerves intensified, and Zevran didn’t feel like having breakfast anytime soon.

“Alright, I’m making breakfast, so you’d better hurry up or I’ll end up eating your bowlful.”

“Ah, doesn’t that remind me of my childhood?” Zevran sighed as Theron ducked out of the tent.

Rather than dwell on those unpleasant memories or continue to brood over his worries, he got to his feet and methodically began to dress, donning his armour padding, the armour, Antivan leather boots and the worn Dalish gloves Theron had made for him so long ago. He brushed and braided his hair into its usual style as he left the tent, settling down in front of last night’s banked fire and beside Theron as the other elf ladled breakfast into two rough wooden bowls.

Hair done, Zevran found he could only pick at his food despite knowing they likely had a day’s travel ahead of them. What if Theron’s family didn’t like him? He wouldn’t protest if they did; he was, essentially, a killer for hire. Many reasonable parents would object to such a union. And surely the Dalish were more level-headed and reasonable than most. But what if they rejected him and Theron in one fell swoop? This was Theron’s  _family_.

But in the weeks of travel, and even a few months beforehand when they’d discussed the idea, Theron had been teaching him elvish the same way Zevran was teaching him Antivan. The Sabrae clan spoke the trade tongue, of course, but Zevran had asked to be taught. Anything to make that good first impression.

Theron was so focused on eating his share that he didn’t notice the unusual quiet until he’d nearly finished.

“Zevran, are you alright?”

Zevran glanced up and met Theron’s piercing grey eyes. The other elf’s brows were slightly creased with worry, furrowing the elegant  _vallaslin_ that adorned his deep brown skin. Zevran pushed his spoonful of honeyed porridge around his bowl. Remembered he was a Crow no longer and had no need or use for lying anymore. Theron was his lover. He would understand the nerves, surely? His nerve failed, and he stuck the spoon into his mouth to avoid the question. Too late he realised he hadn’t taken the cooler porridge from the edge of the bowl, and his eyes watered as his tongue burned.

“Yes, yes,” he answered hoarsely once he’d swallowed, wincing as he felt breakfast burn all the way down. It was like the first time he’d tried Antivan brandy all over again. “Just…” He paused and took a drink from a waterskin to ease the pain in his mouth. “I am just worried about today.”

Theron raised one black eyebrow.

“You mean, you’re worried about meeting my clan?”

Zevran nodded sheepishly.

“Perhaps. That, and several other related worries,” He set his breakfast aside to bury his head in one hand. “What if they don’t like me?”

Theron put an arm around his shoulder.

“I’m sure they will. You’re a charming young man, so long as you don’t do something idiotic like piss on one of the statues to the Creators they won’t hate you on sight.”

Zevran chuckled at the notion, and made a firm mental note to not mistake any statues for the latrines.

“All the same, it would be best I stayed quiet about being an assassin, no?” He asked. Theron considered it for a moment, and shrugged.

“At first, yes. But I’m sure once people realise how good you are with your blades and poisons they’ll start asking questions.”

Zevran felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.

“And,” He began uncertainly, “in your letters to your Keeper…?”

“Marethari.” Theron supplied.

“Marethari, did you tell her… About us?”

Theron blinked.

“You mean that I’ve taken a man as my lover? Yes, although I would have preferred admitting it face to face rather than in a letter that could have been lost on the journey.”

Zevran patted Theron’s hand comfortingly.

“I make it look so easy.”

“You do,” Theron smiled. “But I didn’t realise I’d have to keep telling people.” He shook his head, the smile fading. “I have to admit, I’ve been worried about what they’ll think of you, of  _us_ , too.”

Zevran stared at Theron in a mixture of alarm and relief. Theron was having the same worries as him, but at the same time  _Theron was having the same worries as him_.

“That isn’t reassuring me,  _amor_ ,” Zevran answered, trying to sound teasing, but the words came out flat.

“No, no,  _fenedhis_ , I meant… Creators, I don’t even know what I meant. I’m sorry, Zevran.”

They were quiet for a few minutes, and Zevran forced himself to eat a few more spoonfuls of porridge. It was either that or biting his lip until it was swollen and bloody.

“Okay,” Theron began. Zevran glanced at him uncertainly. “I’m sure Clan Sabrae will love and accept you, and they’ll still love and accept me even though I’ve changed a lot in the past… Two or three years,” he said, with the air of a man trying to convince himself that what he said was the truth. “We’ll be fine. And if not…” He trailed off, and his frown returned.

“If not, then we’re not staying with them forever. You’re the Warden-Commander of an entire country and Arl of a big arling. You have so much work to look forwards to when you get back, no?” Zevran smiled, although he felt like doing anything but. Turning around and running all the way back to Kirkwall, perhaps. Hiding behind a rock somewhere as Theron reunited with his family so he wouldn’t spoil the moment-

He started when Theron took his hand, shaken out of his thoughts. Zevran swallowed, trying not to let his nerves show. He could feel how clammy his hand was, and how clammy Theron’s was. It was almost amusing, really. Zevran squeezed Theron’s hand briefly, and got to his feet. He began to pace around the campfire, forcing himself to eat the rest of his breakfast as Theron started packing up camp. Once he’d eaten, he made himself useful by cleaning up the bowls and other remnants of breakfast.

Less than an hour later, and they were on the road as the sun peered from behind the eastern mountain range, casting great shadows. They travelled as quickly as they dared, Theron taking point to search for the best trail.

“How do you know where they’ll be?” Zevran asked eventually.

“I don’t,” Theron called back. “I know their vague location, but we’ll have to search the foothills for a while before we’ll see any sign of them.”

Zevran sighed his relief. Perhaps that would give him some more time to settle the nerves that were running riot in his stomach.

“Would they not send scouts out, if they know we’re coming?”

Theron nodded as he scrambled over a rock that blocked their path, standing on to top help Zevran up.

“Knowing Marethari, if they have the scouts to spare. I don’t think the hunting’s very good around here.” He paused and squinted around the surrounding area. “Not sure if that’s what it’s always like, or because there’s a clan in the area.” He shrugged again, leathers creaking. “Come on,” he added as he hopped down the other side of the rock, hip quiver rattling. Zevran sighed and made his way down a little slower. He had no wish to break his neck in the middle of unfamiliar terrain.

* * *

The sun climbed steadily higher in the sky. Zevran began to sweat under his leathers and was about to suggest they take a break to rehydrate and perhaps have something to eat when an unfamiliar voice made them freeze.

“Who goes there?” The man’s voice echoed across the rocky terrain, but Zevran found the source first. Up on a ledge that overlooked their trail stood an elf, an impressive longbow held at his side, who stared down at them with the sun against his back. A clever move, Zevran mused as he gave up trying to squint past the glare of the sun to make out any more identifying features.

“ _Andaran atish’an_. We mean no harm.” Theron called back. The unfamiliar elf tilted his head, and then turned to look over one shoulder. There was a pause. Zevran shifted where he stood, privately admitting to himself he was too intimidated to even reach for his waterskin to take a drink. The stranger looked back at the two travellers.

“I asked your names, whelps.” He repeated.

“Whelps?” Zevran muttered, not feigning offence this time. Theron either ignored him or didn’t hear, stepping towards the figure and lifting his head up proudly. His dark brow glittered with sweat.

“I am Theron Mahariel of Clan Sabrae. I travel with Zevran Arainai. We are looking for my clan.”

The elf on the rocky ledge above them stood still. Zevran tried to keep an eye on the longbow, but it was difficult with the sun burning his eyes. He licked his dry lips instead.

“Theron Mahariel,” There was an odd, hoarse laugh that followed the repeated name, Zevran almost thought it was a cough. “ _Andaran atish’an_  indeed, we weren’t sure what you were doin’ with yourself after the Blight until the Keeper received that letter.”

Theron snapped to attention, his grey eyes wide.

“Jos?”

“I’m hardly the fuckin’ tooth fairy.” The figure stepped closer to the edge of the precipice, studying it. Now his head was bowed, Zevran caught the flash of pale red hair and fair white skin. So this was the famous Jos he’d been told about, Theron’s hunting mentor. The man Zevran had to thank profusely for teaching Theron how to cook. “Hold on, I’ll come to you.”

Zevran’s breath froze in his lungs as he watched the man, Jos, shoulder his bow, turn and half climb, half jump down the steep rock face like a mountain goat. Zevran fully expected him to lose his footing and tumble to an unpleasant end, but he didn’t. He landed on his feet with a pained grunt in front of Theron and Zevran.

“Mythal’s  _tits_ , I’m getting too old for that.” He grumbled, and now he was standing in front of them, Zevran was inclined to agree. Jos’ face was scarred quite noticeably down the left side, a single line that began near his nose, pulled the left corner of his mouth into a permanent grimace and tapered out when it reached his jawline. His eyes were a brilliant green, and Zevran briefly wondered how attractive he must have been in his youth, scarred or not. Certainly, he was still attractive now, although standoffish older men were not  _quite_ Zevran’s type anymore.

“I’m surprised you’re not a  _haharen_  yet,” Theron answered, a playful tease to his lilting voice. “You’re going grey at long last.”

“I’d rather be nice and cosy in my grave before I have to sit around a campfire listenin’ to Paivel tell the same old cautionary tales so the children don’t follow my example and lose their fingers.” Those sharp green eyes looked Theron over critically. “ Besides, I see some grey at your temples already, so you’re one to talk. What happened to your eyes?”

Theron smiled faintly at Jos.

“The Joining. I’m a Grey Warden now, this is one of the side effects.”

“Grey doesn’t suit you.” Jos grunted. His gaze flicked to Zevran next. Zevran held his breath as he met the gaze evenly.

“And who’s this?”

Zevran let his charm take over, bowing neatly at the waist so Jos could see both his manners and the several blades he wore.

“ _Andaran atish’an_. I am Zevran Arainai, Theron’s travelling companion, humbly at your service. I have heard a lot about the Clan Sabrae and you, good ser.”

When he straightened from his bow, he saw Jos was still assessing him. 

“Are you Dalish, lad?”

“Not quite; my mother was. My father was not. I was raised in Antiva City and once tried to join a Dalish clan, but…”

Jos’ unblinking stare made him trail off uncomfortably.

“I didn’t ask for your life story, but if your mother was Dalish that’s good enough for me,” He answered, drawing a small dirk from a sheath at his hip. Zevran reflexively took a step forwards, a hand twitching towards a blade of his own before he could stop it, which made Jos chuckle as he began to pick his nails with the point. “Relax, I’m not goin’ to gut you, lad. At least, not in front of one of my best students.”

Zevran glanced at Theron, who seemed to be blushing under the midday sun. Either that, or he was in greater need of cooling down than Zevran had realised. Zevran glanced back at Jos, eyes drawn automatically to the knife in his left hand. He realised with a start that Jos’ outstretched right hand was missing two fingers, the ring and little.

“Jos, where’s the rest of the clan?” Theron spoke again.

Jos looked over his shoulder, down the trail behind him and ahead of Theron and Zevran. The rocky ledge Jos stood on hid the trail when it curved away to the left, out of sight

“Over a rise just around the corner, I’ll take you there but I can’t stay. Need to go huntin’ soon. Rest assured, you’ll be swarmed by wellwishers as soon as you set foot in camp and the children will  _never_ leave you alone. Let me know if you want them to, though.”

With that, he sheathed the dirk, turned and began to walk down the trail.

Zevran only felt like he could breathe properly once the man was out of earshot.

“Is he always like this?” He whispered to Theron as they fell into step out of habit.

“Yes, but don’t worry. He likes you, your blades aside.”

“That was him  _liking_  me?” Zevran stared at the older man’s back, the way his plaited hair swayed to and fro like a pendulum. If so, that was one down, several dozen to go. “I would not like to see him hating me. And what does he have against blades?” He added with a defensive frown.

Theron sighed.

“That’s a  _long_ story, I’ll tell you later.”


	7. Day 7: Commitment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is something fairly short and fluffy about the two dorks contemplating marriage some day, immediately pre-Awakening.

The bedroom was quiet for the night. Zevran lay with his head on a pillow, Theron’s head resting on his chest, Zevran’s hands running through his hair or scratching behind one ear. They dozed in content silence, tired but not ready to fall asleep yet.

Zevran contemplated the silence as he listened to Theron’s breathing. The Blight was over, Theron’s injuries were healed at last, there was nothing else that needed their immediate attention. They could finally relax and enjoy some time that was wholly for themselves.

Zevran’s gaze was drawn to the plain golden band in Theron’s right ear; it was warm to the touch from their shared body heat. Such a simple little thing, but it held so much meaning. It had been a trophy from his first mark, and now it was a sign of his love for Theron, the love he was too afraid to say out loud.

He remembered Theron’s words when he’d presented it, if it was a proposal. He hadn’t been able to answer then and he wasn’t sure he was able to answer now. Had it been a proposal? Were they a married couple? Were they technically on a honeymoon now? Perhaps.

“Theron?” He asked, reluctant to break the quiet. The other elf stirred, and looked up at him.

“Mm?”

“Would you mind if we got married someday?”

“Why, are you planning it?” Theron asked, his voice rough with sleep and amusement.

“No, no. I was simply curious.” Zevran chuckled, still toying with Theron’s braids. “But if we did get married, either in a Chantry or whatever the Dalish equivalent is…”

“Oh. The Dalish don’t get married.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow at Theron’s casual tone.

“Really?”

Theron nodded.

“Yes. Instead, the couples that wish to raise children together have to prove their worth to each other. If they can best each other in combat, the Keeper agrees to the union.”

Zevran frowned as he tried to picture such a thing. He felt Theron move his head again, and looked down in time to see his failed attempt at hiding a smile.

“You’re bluffing,  _amor_. I get the feeling there is no such thing.”

Theron grinned.

“No, there isn’t. We don’t get married in a Chantry, but there are bonding ceremonies which are quite similar.”

Zevran settled back on the bed, stretching out leisurely.

“And what are they like?”

“They’re… Big, I suppose. I’m not sure what Chantry ceremonies are like. Aside from the  _arthathvhen_  every ten years or rites of passage, a clan finds many things to celebrate. Each one is different, but all of them make a fuss over bonding ceremonies. Especially if it involves two clans. It keeps everyone happy and busy for a few weeks beforehand. The ceremony itself is colourful, and a lot of couples wait for spring or summer so there are plenty of flowers to use,” Theron shrugged. “At least, in my experience. I’ve only seen a handful. The Keeper oversees the couple wishing to be bonded.”

“Like a Chantry Mother,” Zevran mused.

“And the couple exchange vows they write themselves. It’s all very romantic.”

“Were your parents bonded?”

“I’d imagine so. I know my mother left her clan to be with my father, so I’d find it hard to believe she’d go to that length but stop before actually bonding with him.”

Zevran hummed in acknowledgement, his hands returning to Theron’s scalp. The other elf let out a happy sigh, his eyes sliding closed.

“And what do you think of bonding?”

Theron opened one eye, and grimaced.

“Before I left Clan Sabrae, I was certain I’d be bonded to the First, a young woman called Merrill, at the Keeper’s behest. It wouldn’t have been a happy union for either of us, I think.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow.

“Why is that?”

“Well, you know why I wouldn’t have been happy,” Theron answered with a gesture to his surroundings. “And the bonding wouldn’t have been a willing one. More to keep my father’s lineage alive, increasing the chances of having mageblooded children by bonding with a mage.”

Zevran scoffed.

“You mean to tell me that your Keeper would have paired up two of her charges as if they were retired racehorses prized only for their…”  _Offspring_. “Bloodline?”

Theron shrugged again, noncommittally, and avoided Zevran’s gaze. The movement looked casual, but Zevran could feel the tension in Theron’s body lying on top of his.

“Not every bonding ceremony is done for love.”

“Sounds more like an arranged marriage among Antivan nobility to me.” Zevran shook his head, putting an arm around Theron and holding him close for a moment. “That aside, if you had the choice now to marry or have a bonding ceremony to, say, a devastatingly handsome Antivan man, what would you do?” He asked, ignoring the urge to bite his lip as he waited for Theron’s reaction.

Theron looked up at him, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m surprised you’d want to put yourself off the market like that,  _lath_.” He answered.

“As am I. There would be much wailing in the streets.”

Theron laughed, and wriggled where he lay so their bodies were pressed together.

“And a few sighs of relief and disappointment from Clan Sabrae.”

There was a long pause. Zevran swallowed. They were really talking about this, about marriage. Monogamy. Commitment! Why did he feel so nervous?

“If I might ask you a question,  _amor_.”

Theron bolted upright, his eyes wide and horrorstruck.

“No! Not  _that_ question!” Zevran clarified hastily. He could have sworn his heart skipped a few beats.

“Oh  _thank the Creators_ ,” Theron breathed, the tension leaving him instantly. He slumped back onto the bed to bury his face in the covers with a muffled groan. “What is it?”

“I was simply wondering if the idea of commitment is as terrifying to you as it is to me, but I suppose that just answered my question.”

Theron turned to look at Zevran, wincing.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

It was Zevran’s turn to laugh now, a little too high-pitched for it to be amusement.

“Of course not. If it was not obvious, I think I would rather dismantle the Crows singlehandedly,” He caught the beginnings of a hurt frown on Theron’s face. “Ahh… No offence, of course. Make no mistake,  _mi amor_ , one day I would like nothing more than to settle down in sickeningly domestic bliss with you, but I do not think either of us are ready to give up a life of adventuring just yet.”

Theron rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling.

“I’m not one for domestic bliss, Zev, and I don’t think you are either. Who’s to say we have to get married if it isn’t for us? We can continue as we are now, sworn to each other. We don’t need some ceremony to make it official. We have each other.”

“You would be satisfied with that?”

“For now, yes. We have years ahead of us, we might change our minds someday,” Theron shrugged. “I know I have to go to Vigil’s Keep soon.”

“And I have my duty to all the children who suffer under the Crows in Antiva.”

“Neither can wait, it seems.” Theron’s voice was quiet now, sad. Zevran turned to face him, leaning over to press a kiss to his lips.

“But we can wait,  _amor_ ,” Zevran answered gently, looking into Theron’s eyes. “When I have finished with the Crows - alas, without my  _amor_  at my side - and you have settled at Vigil’s Keep, then we can talk about commitment, hm? When I return to you, not even sharp razors will be able to separate us, I swear it.” He sealed it with another kiss. Theron blinked at him, stunned.

“I’ve never known you to break your word, so please come back to me alive,  _ma vhenan_.”

“I will do my best to stay in one piece,” Zevran smiled. “Now, it is getting late and I am certain Alistair will continue to pressgang you into going to Vigil’s Keep as soon as possible, so we should get some sleep.”

Theron nodded agreement, pulling the covers up as Zevran rolled over to blow out the last candle on their bedside table. They curled up together in the dark, taking comfort in each other’s presence.

“I love you, Zevran.”

“And I adore you more than is wise,  _amor_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit appreciated.  
> Follow me at <https://whatthefenriis.tumblr.com/> if you want.  
> Find the ZevWarden prompts on Tumblr [here](https://whatthefenriis.tumblr.com/tagged/zevwarden-week-2017).


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